The Fires Burn at Midnight
by sapphireswimming
Summary: The ghost wants them to go away.


**This plot bunny came into being from a comment RandomCitizen made about the last superphantom fic I posted, _More Than Bullets_. Thank you so much for getting the gears turning in my head... it's different from anything else I've done but I've come to really really like this idea!  
**

 **Set in an undetermined timeline for both shows, but there is one subtle spoilery hint at Supernatural's season 2 plotline. Which, I realize is a strange warning to give since we're eight seasons beyond that now, haha. But I know that some people reading these crossovers haven't gotten far in Supernatural yet, so I'm trying to remember to put up warnings whenever possible?**

 **Also not sure why every time I try to write a fic from Danny's point of view, it switches back over to the Winchesters. And why it's always Dean. haha *sigh***

 **Title from a Blakemore's Night song.**

 **And present tense because sometimes I talk myself into believing that I, too, can be as cool as surelysilly XD**

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 **The Fires Burn at Midnight**

May 16, 2015

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"No," the boy says. His voice echoes around them even though they're outside, the wind whipping around them in the twilight of an empty park.

Dean shivers, unable to deny the thrill of electricity running up his spine. The leaves rustle out a whisper, trying to warn them away from this encounter, this place they have accidentally stumbled into. Where ghosts roam freely through walls and poltergeists aren't tied to anything that they can see.

But it doesn't change anything. It can't. They've come here for a reason. They have a job to do and no Casper wanna-be is going to scare them away.

They are Winchesters, damn it.

Even if Dean can't think of a haunted house that looks creepier than this empty stretch of lawn beneath the trees, with each blade of grass softly illuminated by the glow surrounding the figure they're staring down.

Dean throws on an overly large smile, the one that's gotten him through everything—a pretty girl's pants, cradling his brother's body as he bleed to death in his arms, and a quarter of a century of general crappiness—and shifts his grip on the shotgun in his hand.

"Aww, you hear that, Sammy?" Dean croons mockingly, because he's always been better, sharper, stronger, knowing that his brother is beside him and he wants, prefers, _needs_ confirmation that Sam is defending his six and is ready for whatever hell this is gonna unleash.

The open space around them is luckily free of handy projectiles to hurl at them, unless this thing wants to uproot an entire steel beamed swing set, but the way the wind's picking up… a breezy night? Or is this scrawny kid more powerful than he looks?

"It thinks it can say no," he makes himself say.

The soft snort Sam gives his flippant commentary is just what Dean needs to hear. The last wisps of apprehension uncurl from his gut.

So what if this is the most haunted town they've ever come to, let alone seen or heard of? They'd purge the community once and for all given enough time. Of every last spirit. One by one.

They just have to start somewhere, and it might as well be with the dead kid hovering in front of them.

"No," the ghost says again, and he drifts closer, floats higher, his feet a good three feet off the ground. Now he's looking down at them as he decides, "You're not going to hunt here."

Dean makes a face because a ghost telling them they can't hunt? Please. Did it actually think they'd listen to it? They killed ghosts, didn't take orders from them. Especially when the demands were so incredibly stupid.

"Well, I hate to break it to you," Dean says, and stops. "No, I actually really don't," he corrects, "but hunting's what we do. And..."

"And this is the most haunted town we've ever come across," Sam butts in.

Dean fidgets, lips thinning fractionally. Because there is knowing that Sam is behind him and there is Sam taking point. And Sam taking point in a town so full of supernatural entities did not sound like it was going to end well given how much the things seem to be attracted to him. Liked knocking him around. Strangling him. Toying with his family history and insecurities Dean had been unable to assuage over the years...

It never ended well.

And Dean sees no reason to think it would start now.

He edges forward to draw the attention back to him. Let Sam think he was being brave or stupid or selfish or whatever. As long as it keeps Sam alive, he'll run with it.

"Anyone's who's been in this place for two hours could see that it needs hunters," he continues. "It could actually use a whole squad, but we just happened to be in the area," he says, swaggering forward, grip carefully steadying on his gun even as he appears completely at ease. Hopefully, lazy enough in his movements to put the ghost off his guard, although the spirit continues tracking his every move as soon as he makes it.

"Plus, we're kinda the best," Dean adds like it's an afterthought.

The ghost's eyes narrow at this and it's the first time he really seems angry. He bristles like he wants to reply explosively and Dean fights to stand his ground instead of running for cover like his instincts are screaming at him to do. Instead, he plants a boot into the soft ground in case this ghost tries anything.

But it just repeats in a strangely even voice, "You are not going to hunt here." The ghost seems to fight to control itself, speaking through the memories of gritted teeth as it says, "We already have hunters who know what they're doing. And we don't want you two butting in."

Dean is shocked because the existence of other hunters is news to them. It's not out of the realm of possibility, he realizes, but multiple hunters in one place? That they've never heard of? Even if it is true, but ghosts must lie too, right? Just like demons? Of course it wants them to go away, to turn around and drive down the main stretch of road without looking back.

But from the amount of supernatural entities they have already come across in just one day here— deceptively casual encounters of ghosts flying by the diner window while no one gave it a second glance—means that the local hunters, if they do exist, are definitely out of their league and need professional backup.

Which is exactly where they come in.

"Yeah, bang up job they're doing," Dean drawls, "leaving you alive."

Before he can reconsider how foolhardy his actions might be, Dean is swinging up his gun and blasts the ghost.

The shot catches it squarely in the chest and he flies back a few feet, finally catching itself with a long hiss.

Both Winchesters rock back a bit themselves and Dean doesn't have to look at his brother to know he's just as surprised as he is. They'd come out tonight prepared for ghosts and Dean knows he got in a solid shot with the salt round. But it didn't make the ghost explode away in a wave of ashy smoke and didn't make him lose his powers because he was still hovering in mid air.

One hand clutches his chest, but nothing else seems to be wrong with the ghost. The salt didn't work.

And if the salt wasn't going to work, the solid cold iron bullets in Sam's handgun probably wouldn't either. He lists it up anyway, providing cover as Dean pushes away his initial surprise and desperately racks his next shot.

It's better than nothing, anyway, and he doubts this ghost will be happy at getting shot by _anything_. But he's getting tired of the things they hunted not fitting into their stereotypes. They seemed to be running into more exceptions than rules lately.

So of course a town full of ghosts is going to be impervious to salt and iron.

Of course they are.

Dean trains his gun on the ghost, waiting to see what will happen next. Sam mirrors the movement soberly, understanding how little good it will probably do.

But there is no question of their leaving or his not backing Dean up with everything he has.

The ghost flickers in and out of visibility for a moment and the Winchesters straighten up, thinking that maybe it's just a very delayed reaction to the salt, but, after a rain of bright green pellets fall to the ground and get lost in the grass, the ghosts squares its shoulders and faces them with clenched fists.

"See?" he says and there is an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before. "You think you know anything?" he demands. "You think you can fix Amity Park? You come in here with your rifles, shooting before you even understand the situation, and you think you can clean up this mess in just a couple days?" he sneers.

"No wonder you leave a trail of death and destruction wherever you go, ruining innocent people's lives as often as you save people who are actually in trouble. But only," he spits, "with the maximum body count."

Dean reels back like he's been physically hit. His shotgun falls limply to his side. Like all of his failures are being dragged back into the light for everyone to see after all of the years trying to push them down and pack them away because it is the only way he can keep going, keep fighting, saving someone, _anyone_ in this world where the evil they face taints the good they seek to achieve.

"The freaking Winchesters, man," the ghost continues, eyes blazing brightly enough in the darkness to bathe them both in a weird shifting green light. The shadows are more ominous than they remember, like they're itching to grow long enough to reach them and pull them back into the murky purgatory that the rest of the world has turned into around them.

"Driving around the country in your Impala and meting out judgment and execution as you see fit. Which means that every single extra human thing on this planet deserves to be wiped out even if it was minding its own business?" he continues, the disgust and outrage dripping from each word.

Sam flinches, shoulders tightening in a feeble defense as the gun visibly tremors in his hand. But he is unable to deny the truth of this ghost's accusation and the only exception Dean ever suffered it to have.

Dean knows exactly where Sam's mind has gone— they can both read deeper into the words than the ghost can possibly mean to say— and struggles to form a response but the ghost wasn't finished.

"We have six of the best hunters in the world. And they're always ready if a real threat ever comes up," he tells them. "They take care of the town and protect the people in it and we. don't. want. you. here." he says slowly, darkly, voice deliberately sinking to make his point as menacingly convincing as possible.

As if he needed any help in the being creepy-as-all-get-out department.

His hand comes down from his chest and he stares at the bright green smeared across his white glove. His defences are down but Sam and Dean don't even think about firing.

"It's a good thing you don't know what you're doing," the ghost says quietly.

"Excuse me?" Dean asks, a touch of outrage and incredulity slipping through the fear that they are completely out of their depth.

The ghost's eyes snap up, finding his immediately. "It's a good thing," he says again, "that you think your shotguns with their salt buckshot will actually work."

Then he swoops forward into Dean's personal space, staring at him with wild unblinking eyes. Dean freezes to the spot, not daring to move, hardly daring to breathe in case it sets the ghost off. Makes it plunge its transparent hands into his chest and stop his heart right here and right now while there's nothing that either of them could do to stop it.

But the ghost just studies his face and softly adds, almost mirthfully, "Because if you'd killed me, you really would have had a problem on your hands."

Sam clears his throat from where he was standing a few feet away. "What do you mean by that?" he asks. And while Dean appreciates the save, he really doesn't want Sam to get a face full of angry dead spirit either.

Fortunately, the ghost looks like it will actually answer his brother instead of attacking him. He moves out of reach, far enough that it can look at both hunters.

His face, though, is closed off. It's cold and hard. "Well, who do you think keeps all of the ghosts in check?" the kid asks, eyes piercing and deadly serious.

That stops them both in their tracks. Derails all of their assumptions up to that point. Because if it is true... One ghost keeping others in line? It isn't something they've ever heard of before. But then...

Then again, Dean doesn't know what to think about any of this. But the idea of hitting the road and not using the rear view mirror is starting to look more and more appealing.

Especially if there are competent hunters. And since the entire civilian population hasn't up and evacuated yet. Besides the fact that they don't have any effective weaponry. So maybe it was time to cut their losses for the night. Get out of this encounter in one piece, investigate, and come back when they're better prepared…

Dean risks a glance over at Sam, who immediately meets his eyes and seems to be having similar thoughts.

The ghost sees it too, and understands their intentions. But it's not enough to make them stand down for a night, he wants them gone. For good.

When he realizes that they don't plan on listening to his advice, the wind starts to pick up in earnest, howling through the trees.

Their attention is pulled back to the floating kid, who suddenly radiates power. Waves of it surge off of him in thrumming waves. His entire body is glowing now, not just his eyes, and he rises up slowly through the air, fists clenched as he stares them down.

"This town is under my protection," he declares, eyes blazing with a holy light

Sam raises a hand to brush the wildly waving hair out of his face and Dean puts out an arm to block the dew laden flower petals from pelting him with soft _thwaks_.

"Our casualty rate has been zero," the ghost says, his voice somehow carrying effortlessly through the whistling of the wind and the trees and the voiceless howl that seems to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Electricity crackles somewhere just beyond the corner of their eyes, making their hair stand on end and filling the air with the unmistakable smell of ozone. The temperature drops a good fifteen degrees.

Then everything dies down at the exact same moment, leaving an uneasy, eerie silence in the wake of the supernatural storm.

Sam and Dean both put down their arms and blink up at the ghost.

"Leave," he commands, voice echoing at full strength in the absence of any other noise. "Before I make it two."

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 **EDIT: forgot to clarify that, yes, Danny is more powerful here than he is in canon. Consider it an AU if you like, but he needed to have the upper hand in at least one of these crossovers and this seemed like the place to do it.**

 **Also, I was working off of the theory that the Winchester's weaponry affects Danny like it would another human. So getting whacked in the head with an iron bar would give him a massive headache but wouldn't make him dissipate and getting blasted full of salt wouldn't hurt him any more than it hurt Dean in Asylum. Although the intangibility thing makes it a whole lot easier to get grains of salt out of the thousand little puncture wounds than it would be in the makeshift Winchester clinic.**


End file.
